


Why did you bring the microscope?

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Camping, Gen, I don't know how tags work, Sherlock Being an Idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have to spend the night in a tent, Sherlock forgot to bring a sleeping bag. It's just kinda happy stuff which I wrote when I was bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why did you bring the microscope?

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of these characters.  
> Also at the moment I have no idea how this site works so just bear with me.

The wind bit at John's cheeks and wormed its way into his hood to nip his ears. It was as though it was an intelligent, vindictive force trying to get at every gap, every chink in John's armour. He loved it. John loved the sting of cold wind, the feel of frost beneath his feet. He loved being able to stand on a mountain and look down, seeing the whole world spread out below him. It was the best feeling in the world, and the thing he'd missed most when he was in Afghanistan. He was so pleased Sherlock had taken the case.  
"John, could you please help me with this?"  
He turned around and almost laughed out loud. Sherlock was struggling under the weight of an enormous rucksack, and he had refused to wear anything other than his usual suit. The sight of the tall, thin detective dressed in an expensively tailored suit and leather shoes and carrying the day's camping equipment was the most surreal thing he'd ever seen. He walked over, laughing.  
"Here, I'll carry it for a while. Where are we going?"  
"You see those cliffs up there?" he asked, indicating a rocky outcrop further up the hill. John nodded.  
"Is that where it happened?"  
'It' was the mysterious disapperance of three climbers over the past month. Sherlock was convinced that there was foul play behind it, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. John had agreed to help him investigate as long as he was allowed to be in charge of packing. He refused to let Sherlock prepare them for a night outside. John shouldered the rucksack, noting with a smile that it was satisfyingly heavy. Still full of camping equipment. He smiled back at Sherlock, then walked off towards the cliffs.  
They reached a place that seemed like an okay camp about twenty minutes later. John put the bag down and turned around to see his friend shivering.  
"Sherlock? Bloody hell, I knew you shouldn't have worn the suit!" he exclaimed, hurrying over. Sherlock's teeth were chattering as he replied.  
"D-d-don't have a-any other-" he managed. John grabbed at his hand. It was heavy and unresponsive.  
"You're freezing! Here-"  
He shrugged off his own coat, hissing at the cold, and handed it to his friend. Sherlock struggled to get it on, but his hands were so clumsy with cold that he couldn't. John helped him put the coat on, then opened the rucksack to find another coat. He knew he'd packed one, but he couldn't see it. Maybe it was under the- what?  
"Sherlock!" yelled John, a touch louder than he'd meant to.  
"Y-yes?"  
"Microscope, Sherlock. Why?"  
He looked up to see Sherlock shifting uneasily on the balls of his feet. He mumbled something along the lines of "for my experiments," but this only served to infuriate John further.  
"What did you take out to fit that in?"  
The world's only stupid genius didn't reply, so John conducted a quick search.  
"You brought the tent, at least. No stove, only one blanket and one sleeping bag- Sherlock, you prat! What were you thinking?"  
John dragged a hand across his forehead, thinking.  
"Right. Okay. At least we've got the tent. If we put that up now, we can sort this out. Probably."  
John hurriedly began sorting out tent poles, desperate to get it put up before he froze. Sherlock was being no help, as apparently his above-average intelligence didn't help him read instructions, but after only two injuries and some mild swearing they finally had what resembled a tent. John threw in the sleeping bag and blanket before climbing inside himself. Sherlock followed, still shivering. There were a few moments of awkward silence.  
"Give me my coat back," snapped John after a minute. Sherlock complied, handing it over.  
"John, I-"  
"Save it."  
"I'm sorry that I-"  
"I said save it. No amount of apologising is going to conjure up another sleeping bag, after all."  
He stared at what was left of their equipment in gloomy silence. Sherlock didn't speak. John sighed. He knew the solution, and he knew Sherlock did too. There was no way he'd persuade the detective to abandon the case now, and besides, it was getting dark. The climbing parties usually arrived first thing in the morning, the whole reason for this trip, so they couldn't just come back the next day. But there were two of them and one sleeping bag, so the solution was obvious. Nevertheless, neither of them wanted to suggest it. John ran through various other options, but none of them were very helpful. At this time of year and at this altitude, John knew that they'd need a blanket, sleeping bag and jacket each to keep from getting hypothermia. And they only had one of each. He sighed, swallowing his pride and looking up.  
"Well, thanks to your bloody microscope"- Sherlock gave a derisive snort- "we're going to-"  
He broke off, the words choking him. Sherlock finished for him.  
"To have to share a sleeping bag. Yes. I'd already reached that conclusion."  
"Oh, hooray. I was hoping that you'd thought of something else."  
"No. Sorry."  
John sighed again, head in his hands. "Great. Just great. Now people will definitely talk."  
"Don't be ridiculous. Nobody else is here."  
"Shut up."

It was clumsy, awkward and uncomfortable. Fully clothed and shivering, the two of them squeezed into the sleeping bag. John felt claustrophobic. Too close, far too close, Sherlock lay watching him. John wanted to struggle, but he couldn't get out. He swore quietly, tears springing to his eyes. He hated being trapped, he'd always hated it. Suddenly the tent was too small and he couldn't breathe, and when he swore again he yelled in his panic, kicking out. Sherlock rolled over towards him, but John was already trapped and this made it worse. He closed his eyes to block out the sensations, then suddenly he felt a rush of cold air across his body and he sat bolt upright, gasping. Sherlock had unzipped the sleeping bag so that John could get some air, and now he was sat watching him intently. John closed his eyes, hating his tears and hating Sherlock, hating the whole world and everything in it.   
"John?"  
Sherlock's voice was uncharacteristically caring. John ignored it, drying his tears on his sleeve. Sherlock was doing something to the blankets, but John didn't see what it was until a gentle touch on his arm made him look round.  
"That idea was never going to work, so this is the best alternative," said the detective. The sleeping bag had been fully unzipped until it was almost a blanket and then spread on the floor like a mattress. The blanket would go on top.  
"Won't that be too cold?" asked John.  
"Not if..."  
Sherlock looked uncomfortable, almost embarassed.  
"What? 'Not if' what?"  
"Body heat. If we lie close together we should be warmer," said Sherlock in a rush. His pale cheeks were tinged faintly pink, and John felt himself blush. Eventually, however, he nodded.   
'After all,' he reasoned, 'anything's better than being trapped again.'

At first they kept a fair bit of distance between them. John refused to look at his flatmate- tentmate- and tried to forget the whole thing. The temperature was dropping fast as the night went on, though, and the warmth radiating from Sherlock's body offered a tempting glimpse of what it would be like not to be cold. John shuffled slightly closer and Sherlock rolled over to face him. They were so close they were almost touching, and John closed his eyes for a moment, just enjoying the small amount of extra warmth.Sherlock shivered and John winced as another stabbing gust of wind cut into him and chilled him to the bone. Instinctively he curled closer, leaning against the detective. It was a few moments before he realised what he'd done.  
"Sorry," he mumbled as he pulled back.  
"No-" began Sherlock, but stopped himself. Turning on the torch, a bright beam that swept through the darkness, he rolled over slightly and gestured for John to come closer.  
"Sherlock?"  
"If you lie here, we'll be warmer. Rest your head on my shoulder, here- that's right. Now bring your arm across. I'm here. Not too claustrophobic?"  
"N-no..."  
John was now lying half across Sherlock's chest, head on his shoulder, and the taller man's thin arms were wrapped carefully around him. He was warm and comfortable, but he still wanted to pull away. He wasn't gay, he knew he wasn't, and anyway Sherlock had never shown any interest in him. So why did John want to kiss him?  
"Sherlock?"  
"Yes, John?"  
Sherlock's voice was so soft and gentle that John's heart fluttered and his eyes drifted shut. He could quite happily die surrounded by that voice, safe in these arms. He could- 'no!' he told himself. 'You are NOT in love with Sherlock Holmes!'- but he could imagine kissing Sherlock softly in this perfect darkness, a beautiful kiss of purest love and friendship. But he wasn't gay.  
"John?" asked Sherlock again.  
"Why did you bring a microscope?"  
"I told you. For my experiments."  
"No you didn't," said John in sudden realisation.  
"What?"  
"You never bring anything with you. You take samples and test them later. You just did it to annoy me."  
"Annoy you." Sherlock sounded hurt. "Is that what you think?"  
"Well, it's the only expl-"  
"It's one explanation fitting some of the facts."  
"What are the 'facts' then?"  
"We have only one sleeping bag. I brought a microscope. It's a cold night."  
"Christ, Sherlock, a child could tell you that. If you're just messing with me-"  
"...and there's one other thing."  
"What's that?"  
John turned his head to look up at Sherlock, but his next words were cut off by the sudden and totally unexpected pressure of Sherlock's lips against his in a perfect kiss. The detective was shy, tentative, and John was equally nervous. They carefully pulled apart, staring at each other in the blackness. John was glad of the darkness hiding his blush.   
"What...what was that?"  
"It's called a kiss, John. It's a thing that sometimes happens when one person likes another and wants to express that they like them."  
"I know what a kiss is! What I meant was...why did you kiss me?"  
"Because, as I just explained, I needed a way to tell you I like you. This seemed the least complicated."  
"Least- Faking an investigation and dragging me on a camping trip was the least complicated way? A simple cup of coffee and a chat would have been fine!"  
"Are you saying you didn't like it?"  
The hurt in Sherlock's voice was unmistakeable."Of course I liked it. It's a very Sherlock way to ask someone out, and it's Sherlock I'm in love with."  
'Shit!' thought John in a panic. Why had he said that? He wasn't in love with Sherlock, he wasn't gay! But these ex-truths were crumbling round his ears until he finally tossed them away and leaned in to kiss Sherlock again. The detective gave a small sigh of happiness as John rested his head back on his shoulder.  
"You love me?" whispered Sherlock.  
"I always have." It was true.  
"But you always hated it when people assumed we were a couple!"  
"I know. I'm sorry."  
"I have never loved anyone else. You were my first friend and I love you more than I can say."  
This was the most Sherlock had ever said about his feelings, and John snuggled down against him, smiling shyly. Another gust of wind shook the tent and Sherlock's arms tightened around John, his long-fingered hands rubbing lightly up his back and into his hair.   
"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm here, I've got you. We'll be warm in the morning. We'll be fine."  
John wasn't used to Sherlock sounding caring, and the effect was startlingly soporific. John's eyes drifted shut and his limbs grew heavy. The last sensation he was aware of was a comforting warmth and Sherlock's hand trailing through his hair, reminding him that everything would be okay in the morning.

John was woken by a vibration in his pocket. No- Sherlock's pocket. They were wrapped so tightly together that it was heard to tell. John bent his head and lightly kissed Sherlock's forehead to wake him. The detective shifted slightly, smiling in his sleep. John loved seeing Sherlock smile- he never smiled like that when he was awake. John was tempted just to lie with Sherlock all day, but after a few seconds the detective opened his eyes.  
"John?"  
"Morning," smiled John nervously. What if Sherlock changed his mind?   
"Text from Mycroft," mumbled Sherlock. He quickly dialed a number and put the phone to his ear. John could hear the dialing tone and stayed silent. He always enjoyed the Holmes brothers' conversations- although they were the two most intelligent men in Britain, they bickered like children.  
"Mycroft?"  
"Ah, Sherlock. Sleep well?"  
"As if you didn't know."  
John stifled a cry of outrage and surprise. Mycroft knew? Mycroft knew what Sherlock had been planning?  
"Gr- Inspector Lestrade is at the hotel with me. I took the liberty of booking you a room. You always did detest camping- I thought some five-star accomodation would be a nice congratulations."  
"Why is Lestrade there?"  
"He wants to know how you hacked into the police database to fake those files."  
"Tell him not to write his password down next time. Oh, and Mycroft?"  
"Yes?"  
"Book two rooms."  
"Surely you two won't be wanting-?"  
"Oh, it's not for us. I've seen the way you and 'Greg' look at each other lately. I thought some five-star accomodation would make a nice congratulations."  
Mycroft chuckled softly and John stifled a laugh."Two rooms it is. You're going to be the death of me, Sherlock."  
Sherlock gave his customary sarcastic half-smile.  
"Goodbye, Mycroft."  
With that he clicked the 'end call' button and turned back to John, who had tears of silent laughter trickling down his cheeks.  
"Greg...and your brother?" he gasped after a moment.  
"Yes. It's been going on for some time, actually. I pretended not to notice."  
"That's...that's unusually thoughtful of you."  
"Not really. He threatened to tell you how much I care about you, and I couldn't let that happen. I needed to do it myself."  
John smiled.  
"You adorable prat," he said quietly. "Let's pack up. I could do with some time in a luxury hotel."  
Sherlock smiled.  
"Agreed," he laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> John's panic and claustrophobia was inspired by me waking up in a tent at 2am completely trapped in my sleeping bag in pitch darkness. It's hard being claustrophobic when you love camping. Also, this is the first fic I've posted on this site so if you could leave comments or suggestions that'd be brilliant :)


End file.
